


The Anger of a Gentle Man, Part I

by miss_grey



Series: What We Do In The Dark [24]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Airports, BAMF gene, Consent Issues, M/M, Supernatural AU - Freeform, Werewolves, involving the TSA, protective gene, protective renee lemaire, witch gene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 21:36:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19385107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_grey/pseuds/miss_grey
Summary: “There are three things all wise men fear: the sea in storm, a night with no moon, and the anger of a gentle man.”― Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man's Fear





	The Anger of a Gentle Man, Part I

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy :)

 

 

“I need you to look after the parish while I’m gone.”  Gene said, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep them from trembling—they had been on and off for hours now, since he’d ended the call with Edward, since he’d called to book his flight.

Renee nodded, her shadowed eyes peering at him through the gloom.  “You know that I will, Eugene.  But please…remember my warnings.  Remember what happened last time you left.”

Gene dipped his head in acknowledgement.  “I remember.”

“We will be alright without you.  Please take care of yourself.”  Renee reached out, laid a hand on his arm, and she pulsed brighter for just a moment, clearer, and her eyes gained color for a moment.  She withdrew with a surprised gasp.

Gene nodded.  “I will.”

 

* * *

 

 

Flying was a strange sensation.  All his life, Gene had lived with his feet planted firmly on the ground—trudging barefoot through the muck, leaves and twigs scattering under his quick, youthful feet, boots squelching through the soggy underbrush—feeling the world breathe around him, rocking with the ebb and flow of energies that told him so very much about the world.  Now, though….  Well.

Gene had never been on a plane before—had never been out of Louisiana before either, though he had stretched further than his parish once upon a time.  Back when he was younger, wilder, freer.  Back before he’d assumed the responsibility that his mother had borne before him, and his grandmother before her. 

This was a whole new experience, though.  Gene had feared he’d never make it onto the plane, and he didn’t intend on doing this again if he could help it.

He’d packed lightly, a small checked bag with some necessary supplies that he didn’t feel comfortable carrying on his person, and a small knapsack that he carried with him onto the plane.  He’d driven his truck to the airport and left it in cheap, rented parking.  No one would mess with it while he was gone.  He’d gone into the terminal—already bustling even at that early hour in the morning before the sun had fully risen yet—and he’d been impressed by the press of bodies, all anxious, all eager, all consumed by their own thoughts, their own responsibilities.  Gene had taken a deep breath, grounded himself, and pushed through the press to his own ticket kiosk, where he’d asked the kind woman behind the counter for his ticket, and admitted to her, rather sheepishly, that he’d never flown before, so if she could be very helpful, he’d much appreciate it.  She had been.  She’d taken his checked bag and told him that he needed to make his way next through security before he could find his gate and be allowed to board the plane. 

Looking around at the other passengers, who were dressed mostly in business suits, or brand-name athletic gear, Gene knew he appeared underdressed in his simple black t-shirt, jeans, and boots, but the life that he lived didn’t require much variety and it’d been all he had.  He hoped that it was alright for autumn in Philadelphia. 

Security was a problem.  Gene furrowed his brow, confused, when they asked him to take his shoes off and empty his pockets.  He owned no electronics, so that wasn’t the problem, but Gene felt bare before the cold eyes of the TSA agents, exposed, as they read his identification and proceeded to strip him down, layer by layer.  First it was the boots.  Then they directed him through a strange, electronic machine where he was instructed to raise his hands like he was facing down the barrel of a gun.  Only… they made him do it three separate times before they determined that the machine was mal-functioning.  Apparently, it wasn’t scanning properly.  Gene pursed his lips and decided not to comment—he could take a guess what was happening and it wasn’t the fault of the machine.  So they brought him through and then took a magnetic wand to him, scanning up and down each leg and arm, over his torso.  It, too, apparently malfunctioned.  The poor man whose job it was to conduct these measures finally had to pull Gene aside for a pat-down.  At first, he seemed very suspicious of Gene, but once he’d finished running the backs of his hands all over Gene’s body, he apologized profusely for the inconvenience.  Feeling rather violated, Gene had nodded tersely and reclaimed his shoes and bag before making his way to the gate.

Now he sat on the plane, boxed into a tiny seat between two older women who kept flicking curious glances at him.  Gene’s stomach had plummeted when the plane had taken off, pressed back into his seat by the force of it, and he couldn’t imagine why people did this so often. 

At one point, one of the old women (Agatha) turned to him and struck up a conversation, which inevitably turned to where they were headed and what they were doing.  Gene didn’t like to lie, so he simply smiled and redirected the questions back toward Agatha, who seemed rather content to talk about herself.  At one point, she broke off, a frown on her face as she clenched and unclenched her hand.  She smiled ruefully up at Gene.  “Sorry.  Arthritis.  It gets worse when I fly.”

Gene smiled kindly at her and then told her of an ointment that she could make and apply to her hands that would take most of the pain away.

She smiled back at him.  “Thank you, young man.  Are you a doctor?”

Gene just shrugged.  “Of a kind.”

 

 

 

At one point, he dozed.  And dreamed.  Or rather… _remembered._

 

 

 

_Gene picked his way along the often-trod path, ignoring the beautiful, tempting glow of the Will o’ Wisps that hovered nearby, coaxing.  They whispered in his mother’s voice, and in Renee’s, and now Edward’s, too.  Gene kept to the path, his hands swiping branches aside as he moved under the pale, weak moonlight.  Wispy clouds blew by overhead, obscuring what light there was._

_Renee waited in the clearing for him, this time, wringing her scratched, muddy hands.  “Eugene,” she whispered when she caught sight of him, rushing forward.  Her hands hovered over him, wanting to touch, but knowing she shouldn’t.  “I’ve been calling for you, Eugene.  It is urgent.”_

_“I ‘pologize,” Gene murmured.  “There was a healin’ that needed to be done first.”_

_Renee nodded.  “Of course.”_

_“What is it?”  Gene frowned.  “Are you alright?”_

_Renee waved his concern away.  “It is not I that am in danger, Eugene, but you.  I have heard whispers again.  So many are talking about you.  All the time.”_

_Gene felt the icy finger of dread stroke slowly down his spine.  “More than usual?”_

_“Yes.  You have made quite a reputation for yourself out in the world.”  Renee shook her head.  “It is dangerous.”_

_“They ask for my help, Renee.”_

_“And you will always give it, I know.”  Her chest heaved, as if she sighed, though she no longer had breath.  “Promise me you will be careful, Eugene.”_

_“I’ll do my best, like always.”_

_Her eyes were sadder than usual, and the air around her had grown cold.  “They do not yet know your name, but they are looking.  They will find it, eventually.  You must be prepared before then.”_

_Gene ran a hand through his dark, messy hair.  The humidity was thick tonight.  “I’m not worried about myself, Renee.”_

_Her eyes were dark, absorbing the light, and her face was cast in shadow now.  “You should be.”  She reached a hand out, trailed her fingers down the warm skin of his arm, but he knew she couldn’t feel it, not really.  “Have caution, Eugene.”_

 

He jerked awake and the plane dipped, the seatbelt lights popping on.  Gene clutched the armrests and forced himself to take deep, steady breaths.  The plane righted itself a moment later.

Another couple hours until Philadelphia.  Gene focused on breathing, and thought, once more, about what he was about to do.  He closed his eyes and prayed under his breath, for guidance, for strength, for patience and the will do to the right thing, even when he felt like a tumultuous storm raged inside of him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Here, Babe.”  Joe said, nudging him with his shoulder.  “Here’s the picture of Sobel for The Doc.”

Babe tore his gaze away from Bill, who still shuddered involuntarily every few minutes from the aftershocks of the forced change.  The other wolves were huddled throughout the bar—Muck, Malarkey, and Penkala in one corner, Sisk and Perconte on Sobel duty, peeking furtively through the blinds to the bookstore across the street.  The whole block, it seemed, had mysteriously emptied since the incident, and Babe knew it was gonna blow up in their faces.  He could imagine the headlines now: _Werewolves in South Philly!_ or _Man Changes to Beast In Middle Of Street—Drugs Involved?_ Either way, it wouldn’t be anything good.  Babe shook his head, clearing it of all the bullshit, and focused on Joe.  “Thanks, Joe.  Where’d you manage to get it?”  He glanced down at the shiny drug-store print that was a perfect shot of Sobel’s face and upper body.

“Luz got it for us this morning.”

Babe frowned.  “How?  Sobel knows what he looks like, doesn’t he?  He can sense you all are wolves.”

Joe shrugged.  “You know Luz.  He has his ways.  Anyway, don’t question it too much, he got what we needed.”  Joe crossed his arms, defensive in the face of feeling vulnerable.  “So, what’s he need it for, anyway?”

Babe shrugged.  “I don’t know, exactly.  He said something about bindin’, but I don’t know what that means.”

“Huh.”  Joe focused his gaze on Babe, shifted uneasily on his feet.  “And you’re sure The Doc can deal with this?”

Babe huffed.  “ _I_ don’t know, Joe.  But _he_ sounded pretty confident last night.”

“Alright.  When’s he get here?”

Babe glanced down at his phone.  “I’m gonna go get him from the airport in two hours.”

Joe nodded.  “Take Julian with you.”

Babe rolled his eyes.  “What for?”

“You shouldn’t be alone right now.  And anyway, if he keeps hovering like he is, I think Bill’s gonna snap.”  Joe motioned toward the chair where Bill sat.  Julian attempted to tuck a blanket around him again and Bill growled.

“Alright.”

“It’s close quarters here for a bunch of wolves.  Not used to being cooped up like this.”

Babe nodded in understanding.  “Well, hopefully it won’t be needed for much longer.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Passengers streamed out of the terminal, phones pressed to their ears, hurrying this way and that, tugging their luggage along behind them, rushing toward loved ones.  Every so often, a particularly stressed person sprinted by.  Julian leaned against one of the barriers and said “So what does this Doc guy even look like, anyway?”  He pointed toward an old, gray-haired man and said “That him?”

Babe rolled his eyes and fought to gather his patience.  “No, that’s not him,” he sighed.  “Gene’s not old.”

“So what’s he look like, then?  Seriously—how am I supposed to help find him if I don’t know what he looks like?”

“I don’t need your help findin’ him, Julian. I know what he looks like.”

“So what’s he look like?”

Just then, Babe caught a glimpse of dark hair—so dark it almost glinted blue—and he straightened, immediately at attention.  The man maneuvered gracefully through the crowd and he broke out, knapsack hitched on one shoulder, small suitcase clasped in the other hand.  Babe smiled and waved his hands.  “Gene!  Over here!”  And then Gene turned, smiled back softly, and strode toward them.

“Oh,” Julian murmured next to Babe’s shoulder.  “Well… makes sense why you were gone so long, now.”

Babe ignored him, though, eyes raking over Gene.  Every time he saw the man, it was a revelation.  Lean, but deceptively strong body, decked in dark boots, blue jeans, and a form-fitting black t-shirt.  His skin was pale as ever, though there was a darkness in the space under his eyes, like Gene hadn’t been sleeping well.  His hair was mussed, like he’d run his hands through it too many times.  His dark eyes, always too deep to fathom, focused on Babe, and Gene strode right up to him, dropping his luggage at his feet so that he could hover his hands over Babe’s shoulders, fidgety, unsure, just for a moment, before he laid them on Babe and ran them down his arms, touching, reassuring.  “Are you okay?”  Gene murmured in his deep, Cajun lilt. 

“’M fine, Gene.  You?  How was your flight?”

Gene shrugged.  “’Bout like I imagined.  ‘M not a fan of flyin’, apparently.”  He quirked a small grin then pressed “Where are the others?”

“Back at the bar, waiting, like you said.”

Gene nodded.  “Good.  Did you get what I asked for?”

“Yep.  Got it right here.”  Babe patted his pocket.  “You sure about this?”

Gene gave a sharp nod.  “I am.”  Then, he must have caught movement out of the corner of his eye, because he suddenly became aware of Julian.  “Who’s this?”  He asked.

Babe glanced toward the giant, gangly teenager.  “Gene, this is John Julian.  You remember me mentioning him?”

Gene nodded.  “I do.”  He held a hand out to the younger man.  “Nice to meet ya.”

Julian, still slack-jawed, reached out to take Gene’s hand.  “Good to meet ya, Doc.”

“Alright.”  Gene picked up his bags once more.  “Let’s go.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

All the wolves perked their ears in unison and sat up straighter, straining their senses to understand what had just changed.  A hush fell over the bar, conversation dying out altogether, with no outward signal.  Bill cocked his head to the side, trying to hear something that he couldn’t quite _hear._ A frequency trembled just outside of his range, but he could feel the pressure of it growing, coming nearer.  Muck and Penkala opened and closed their jaws a few times, like they were trying to get their ears to pop, but Bill knew it wouldn’t work.  That wasn’t the problem.  The problem was… frequency.  That’s what it was.  Not range.  Not real pressure.  They simply weren’t tuned in to the right channel, but one… _next_ to it, and they were _almost_ catching what was going on, but not quite.

The hairs rose on Bill’s arms and Joe cursed from behind the bar, setting a bottle down with a resounding _thunk_ in the otherwise hushed room.  “What the fuck _is_ that?”  He asked, stalking around from behind the bar.  He sidled up next to Bill, ears cocked toward the street. 

Bill shrugged.  “Don’t know,” he muttered, “but it’s comin’ closer.”

Behind them, Malarkey crossed himself and Muck slung an arm around his shoulder, pulling him close.

“It’s…strange.”  Bill said, eyes closed, reaching, reaching, reaching for it.  “Definitely strong, whatever it is.  But not… _bad?_ ”

“I’ve got chills,” Penkala whispered.  “All over my body.  Literal chills.”

“You think it’s Sobel?”  Malarkey asked, a soft whine to his voice.

“No,” Bill insisted.  “I’ve felt _that_ son of a bitch.  This isn’t him.  This is…different.  _More.”_

Joe braced himself next to Bill, fists clenching and unclenching, ready for a fight, as the… _presence…_ came ever closer.

Finally, it peaked, to almost a whine in the backs of their minds, still too far for them to quite _hear,_ but close enough to feel.  It was there, in front of them, all around them, a wave of… _something…_ crashing over them.  The doorknob jiggled and all the wolves braced themselves, hackles rising.  And then Babe pushed through the front door, a smile on his face, and then he stood aside, and _he_ walked through the door, dark eyes scanning, seeing everything all at once.  He met Bill’s gaze and offered his own soft, reassuring smile.  Julian walked in behind him then shut the door, and Babe cleared his throat and said “Gene…this is the Pack.  Guys…this is Gene.”

**Author's Note:**

> Remember, y'all, comments are love and they keep me motivated to keep writing. I love to hear what you think of the story. Also, feel free to come say hi on tumblr. I'm @realhunterswearplaid.


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